WW2

Chapter 1: The Juggernaut

With the deafening blasts of artillery and the explosions that reached the heavens, the soldiers of the third German army group lined up. Officers walked down the countless men under their command, passing one tablet of Pervitin to each eager man of the Wehrmacht. Methamphetamine. Holds of fatigue. Makes a solider fight harder, stronger, faster. Stops pain, anxiety, fear. Poland fell in 26 days.

Paratroopers caught the Dutch by surprise. Overwhelmed them. Netherlands fell in less than a week. Belgium faired no better and now Paul was at the boarder with France. Part of the reinforcements, the invasion of France had already begun.

The artillery raged on. Fuelling Paul's eagerness to march deep into northern France. The shells died sharply; it signalled for the Panthers to roll through whatever fortification was built to delay the inevitable. The drug began kicking in, and any fatigue of sleepless nights washed away. With his brothers in arms, he sprinted forward at the enemy.

He blinked. His bayonet was logged deep into a man's chest. He pulled it out and aimed at another who was using a car as cover. With a trigger pull, the target was no longer behind a car but out in the open sunshine of the late afternoon. Fatigue was beginning to take its toll. He took another tablet. Once again, the rush flooded his internal gates. The invasion of France was a whirlwind of blood and noise. They never stopped to celebrate. Rarely stopped to rest. He jotted down everything when he could. Either back on a horse carriage, in a truck. Or in some house.

Armed with his rifle and total disregard for his physical, he charged ahead into a cottage, just as trained he killed his enemy. Shoot, reload, shoot, reload. This position flanked his machine gun, protected his machine gun. He had to protect his platoon's machine gun. Everything was for the machine gun, it was his life line. He killed men for the machine gun. One of hiding behind a table, gun pointed at a door. Paul threw in a small stone. The man panicked and backed off, bracing for an explosion. Paul shot him dead.

Evening was dawning upon them. They had to keep advancing. The armoured division was deep into France, dangerously deep. Far away from reinforcements and held together by thinned supply lines.

He began to drift off. The bumps of the road were annoying at first but soon became something of a lullaby. They were linking up with friendlies, they were going to make a break through against a holdout in some village. Problem? They had tanks. Paul didn't see friendly tanks for a while.

It lasted an entire day. First contact was bad. He friend was shot right through the abdomen. Paul provided cover fire at the shop it was coming from. He missed but his friend was dragged to safety regardless. He fired again, holding down the street. An explosion rocked a building down the road, he moved forward hugging a wall with his gun raised. He approached the rubble, and through the dust it was creating spotted movement. He laid down and fired a few times. More soldiers took cover and shot in the general direction.

On the side of a blown out wall, it was hardly visible but warranted much attention; there were sandbags and some scrap that plugged the hole in. A couple Frenchmen poised there, fired bursts over Paul's head cutting of the advancement.

His officer approached him and fired a small burst but the heads ducked just in time. "You see where I'm shooting?!"

I nodded.

"There's a couple there, keep your sights trained on them!"

He went ahead, dangerously close to the last sighting of some enemy soldiers. He crouched, peeked his head into a window before climbing in. Behind him several soldiers followed up.

Bullets flew past me. It hit the rubble I was hiding in. It hit the building behind me. I ducked down, lost sight of the sandbags. I cursed.

I aimed my gun and fired. I cycled the bolt, the ejected cartridge fell onto my friend beside me, Carls. He cursed too, though we both kept aiming at the position. He spotted it first, movement across the street. They had moved nests. Just in time as the building was peddled with bullets, dust clouded along the side, some sand oozed out. But no one died, no one got injured.

"I'll cover me," I yelled to Carls. I ran ahead fearing each step I'd get shot. But I made it to my officer. They were preparing to clear the nest when I informed him of the new position.

He told him to head back, grab a man and advance forward, to cover them. So he did. Naturally he grabbed Carls. The two fired pot shots in the general direction, hoping to get the enemy to fire back and reveal themselves. They were too disciplined, didn't shoot back.

And that's when the sleeping giant awoke. A tank rolled down the streets. Machine guns blasted from it at all angles, building were lit up. Men fell. Positions were compromised. The officer had ordered a retreat just before its gun blew up the building next to them. A slab of brick fell apart and a dark cloud took its place. Both of them ran back, hid inside a building.

He saw an anti-tank gun being rolled in, barely making it over the rubble. But they stopped, fearing the cannon of the tank which had moved to the side of the street and was stationary.

I approached the crew setting up the position. They were waiting for the tank to turn the corner but that wasn't happening.

"Do you think you could set up the gun in time if the tank fired another shot?" I asked the sergeant, he nodded. "How will you get it to waste a shot?"

"I need a machine gun to fire from that building," He pointed to where he and Carls were staying at just moments before. "They'll shoot it with their machine guns, we'll duck and fire again. They would probably use their main gun on it afterwards. Your men could set it up and take a shot."

The sergeant thought for second before ordering his machine gunner. The plan worked, the tank took the bait and was hit because of it. With a hole in its front armour it fired again and again as it backed off.

Late evening the final defenders either retreated or surrendered. Paul and Carls, along with the sergeant and the men involved were nominated for some medals, as told by his officer once dinner was fed and done. He was unsure of what the sergeant or his men got, but Carls and him had a promotion in store along with a 'War merit cross 2nd class' and an 'Infantry assault badge'.

"Just before we reach and fight for Calais in a couple days time, Paul you will no longer be Senior lance corporal and Carls you will be Lance corporal. I'm proud of you gentlemen. Get some sleep, in a couple hours we will be advancing again."

The fuzzy memories messed with Paul's temper. He wrote in his diary his thoughts on the drug, and how he wanted the battles to be over with the urge to return to his hometown. His memories began to clear up, and he wrote down, with detail, the cold blood of the man on the wrong side of his bayonet. It was quite some time ago, not the first time he wrote about it. But he still felt the urge.
Whilst his friends in his platoon drank with joy and happiness that the fatherland returned from his depression, he drank to wash down his homesickness.

He looked at Carls who was boldly wearing his medals. Victory over Calais was guaranteed. Once the last few men surrendered, Dunkirk would be ripe for the taking. 'I should be happy. I helped take down a fucking tank...fuck this'

He closed his diary.